


Paradise Within

by knucklewhite



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M, Magical Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/pseuds/knucklewhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The markings were once on Michael's skin, now they're on Alex's. But they remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradise Within

**Author's Note:**

> Set some nebulous time after 1x04 and goes AU from there. See [end notes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2158029#work_endnotes) for warnings. 
> 
> Thanks to [callay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callay) for just generally being altogether excellent. <3

The dream wakes Alex before the pain does.

There's an amber sea in place of what was once the Nevada desert, a viscous expanse that spreads around Vega and into the distance like honey on bread. It glitters in the late afternoon sun, serene — until Alex looks closer and sees the figures writhing on its surface. Angels. Trapped by their wings like flies. Their mouths are black circles of anguish, their bodies squirm and convulse.

Alex, too, convulses in his bunk — once, twice — and then his eyes flick open onto a view of the underside of the bunk overhead. He squints up at the metal grid, disoriented, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible cartography of lines and shadows.

_It's a map … no, it's a language. If he could just—_

And then the pain rolls over him again, tugging him into awareness.

It really does tug. It hooks clawed fingers under the lines of the tattoos and _twists,_ pulling tighter, tighter, an increasing tension like a volume dial slowly tick-ticking its way to maximum output, and Alex can't breathe, is sure his bones are about to crack under the pressure, and—

The tension releases like a snapped rubber band.

Alex has a few moments of gasping relief before it hits him again. He screws his eyes shut and digs his fingers into the mattress as the sensation clamps him to his bunk, releases him, clamps again. He arches his back, trying to ride the waves without making a noise. The pulses seem endless, like he's being swept up in that sea of liquid amber, unable to pull himself free. Despite the pain, he's distantly aware that his cock is as rigid as the metal poles of his bunk. Because there's an edge of something else there, something underlying the pain that almost makes him want to stop fighting it, to just let it overtake him. He groans, kicks at the rough blanket tangled around his legs, and tumbles onto the floor with a thump.

Ethan mutters and rolls over in his bunk. The rest of the occupants of the Archangel Corps barracks are quiet in their slumber, all except for Garver and his rasping snores.

Alex hunches on the concrete floor, sweat pooling in the hollow of his back, his muscles tensing in anticipation of the next wave. He tries to quiet his panting, to regulate his breathing in time with Garver's snoring: in through his nose, out through his clenched teeth, easy, just like weight-training drills.

"Y'okay, man?" Ethan mumbles, one arm flopping over the edge of his bunk.

Alex manages to lever himself into a crouch. "Bad dream," he whispers hoarsely. "Just getting some water. Go back to sleep." The last thing he needs is an audience for this.

Ethan grunts in acknowledgement and is asleep before he's even finished rolling back over again. He won't remember this in the morning.

Alex counts himself through thirty more breaths, until he's sure the pulses have stopped, then he untangles himself from the blanket, pushes himself up from the floor, and climbs back into his bunk.

He shuts his eyes against the lines and shadows of the bunk above him.

—

It happens again three nights later.

Afterwards, Alex stumbles to the washrooms, tears off his sweat-damp shirt and twists to examine the tattoos in the mirror. The lines stand out stark against his stomach like muddy tire tracks. They look the same as they did yesterday. At least, he thinks they do. Was that line curving around his torso a bit higher last time he looked at it? Truth be told, barring the necessary cover-up tasks ( _Is my neck showing? Are my sleeves down?_ ), he's been doing his utmost to forget the tattoos even exist.

It seems they're not entirely pleased at being ignored.

His face looks strange in the mirror: pale and alien, all color leached from his skin by the harsh lighting. His pupils are so swollen his eyes look as black as an eight-ball's. He thinks of Michael's dark eyes for one odd moment and then discards that thought onto the tiled floor along with his damp shirt, twisting again to check the tattoos.

 _You're fine,_ he thinks _. It'll pass._

The shirt is long-sleeved and high-necked, of course. It's a complete bitch to sleep in, especially in a barracks swimming in the swampy heat generated by the bodies of the entire Corps. The A/C has been on the fritz for over a month, and Ethan has been taking bets on when maintenance might ever get around to fixing it. Alex's vote was 'not this year, anyway'.

Still, the shirt and sweatpants need to stay on. Alex has been around enough Church of the Savior fanatics — V1s who bury themselves in religion to dull the realities of Vega's bottom rung, V5s who wield their faith like an edged weapon — to know that nobody else can see the tattoos. He's been using the showers at night, but he can't keep hiding this forever.

As if in agreement, his skin tingles with the onset of another pulse.

He braces his hand against the mirror, sweaty palms squeaking on the slick surface as the wave overtakes him, relentless as an eight-ball possession. He can do nothing but lean forward, squash his cheek into the mirror, and concentrate on remaining upright. The harsh pants of his breath bloom and fade against the mirror in time with the pulses. From the corner of his eye he can see the markings twisting around his forearm like a boa constrictor.

 _What the fuck do you want?_ he thinks, nearly says out loud. But there's nothing to read there, no instruction or direction or ultimate epiphany — just a shifting array of tangled lines tracing his skin like the edge of a scalpel blade, like some kid's frenzied scribbling, the kind of scribbling that ends up ripping right through the paper.

The waves increase in frequency and intensity, and Alex abandons any attempt at trying to make sense of the markings, because now the sensation is shifting between pleasure and pain with each pulse. Ecstasy, agony. Heaven, hell. It's almost worse than pure pain, that contrast. His cock is so hard it tents his gray sweatpants. He jerks his hips against the wall, desperately trying to quench the whine threatening to crawl up the back of his throat, to lock his knees and stay on his feet.

It hurts. It's good. It hurts. _It hurts._

It feels like a thousand hands are pressing him into the wall, clenching on his skin. His balls tighten with the threat of release.

 _Stop_ , he thinks. _Please stop._

And then, abruptly, it does.

He's not sure if it's a relief or not.

He slumps against the wall, muscles liquid, rolls his sweaty forehead against the mirror and looks into the terrifying blackness of his own eyes.

Michael. If it happens again, he'll have to go to the archangel.

—

The Stratosphere building that houses Michael's quarters punctures the Vega skyline like an arrow aimed at heaven. It's no longer the tallest structure in the city — that honor now goes to the defense post by East Wall — but the tower always seems to jut into Alex's vision anyway, no matter where he's looking. It's like one of those portraits whose eyes follow you around a room, glaring at you accusingly.

Alex imagines most of the citizens of Vega view the tower with a similar sense of unease. Two decades of living under an archangel's protection and, still, most of the residents of the city are wary around Michael. Who can blame them? Michael is apparently the lone exception among his entire, bloodthirsty species. He's a hero, sure, but to the average citizen he's also as exotic and dangerous as Whele's infamous lion.

Even Alex had played the usual games of 'Touch the Tower' back when he was just a V1 orphan kid running around the city and finding trouble on every corner. The street kids still play the game today. The closer to Michael's tower you get, the more points you receive. Actually skirting past a guard and touching the wall itself? That's fifty points, or at least it was in Alex's day. He remembers kids gathering in the tunnels and shudderingly recounting rare sightings of the archangel's wings, or embellishing that one thrilling time he looked _right at them_ with his terrifying dark eyes.

Alex had collected and traded his encounters with Michael like baseball cards. In hindsight, it's not surprising that he always won that game. He wonders, wryly, how many points you might get for being flown up to Michael's perch via archangel express.

Bixby would have known.

He trails his hand along the wall — _fifty points_ , he thinks — as he enters the main doors to the tower, nods at the guards on duty. It's the middle of the night, his hair is sleep-mussed, and he's not in full uniform, but his Archangel Corps ranking privileges are sacrosanct here.

He's a lion handler. Or is that the other way around? It's usually the lion handling the whip, but whatever.

There are just under fifteen-hundred weary steps to Michael's quarters at the top of the tower. It takes Alex nearly twenty minutes to lug his aching muscles up most of them. There are the old hotel elevators, of course, but Michael had them decommissioned over a decade ago. Michael likes his privacy and nothing prevents casual visitors and prying eyes like a half-hour hike up into the heavens.

Alex is catching his breath on the 101st floor landing when the pain washes over him again like a freak monsoon, relentless. He bites into the meat of his bottom lip, clings to the handrail like it's attached to the deck of a storm-bound ship, afraid the waves of pain and pleasure combined might up and wash him back down all those steps.

It's far more intense this time.

When it finally passes he's gasping, his hands slippery with sweat on the handrail. His hair is damp. The taste of blood fills his mouth. He spits on the concrete floor of the stairwell. It lands red.

He waits a few minutes for his erection to subside, then uses the handrails to pull himself up the remaining nine floors.

—

Michael isn't alone.

The sliding doors into Michael's bedchamber are ajar. Alex takes one step into the room and then reverses right back the hell out of there after a brief glimpse of the tangle of naked limbs moving on the bed, glistening in the light of all those candles. He's pretty sure he caught a glimpse of the pale angles of Michael's face somewhere in all that flesh, and his heart thuds into his throat with embarrassment.

He hovers outside the door, worrying at his bitten lip, and wondering what in the hell to do now. It's impossible to tune out the noises. The women — and there's definitely more than one in there — sound … enthusiastic.

 _Screw it_ , he thinks. There's no way he's making that epic trek back down the tower without some answers, especially not with legs as rubbery as his daily protein ration. Besides, the thought of curling up against the pain of these damn tattoos in his tiny metal bunk while Michael gets his happy on in a bed the size of Riesen's swimming pool makes Alex's fingers curl into fists.

He thumps those fists on the door, hard enough to hurt, and hears one of the women let out a little cry of surprise. He listens, forehead against the door; there's silence inside.

"Michael," he shouts, and then clears his throat because his voice sounds as dry as two miles of desert road. "Michael! It's Alex. We need to talk." Still silence. "We need to talk _right the fuck now_ , Michael!"

He eases himself to the wall, slumps against it.

After a few minutes, a stream of women begin to exit through the doorway. Actually, no, scratch that — there's a dude in there, too: a tall, dark-haired guy who looks spookily like Michael himself, all pale skin and angles. Alex's eyes flit away when he sees that the guy's lips look bitten and red. Did one of the women do that? Did Michael? Alex's stomach does a little flip at the thought of this guy and Michael together. Double the elegant severity for your money, ladies and gentlemen! But, jeez, how narcissistic can you get? And how many escorts does an archangel actually need to get off, anyway? Alex tries to stamp down all the fleshy configurations threatening to take shape in his brain like some sort of obscene geometry puzzle. This whole situation is embarrassing enough without bringing his boner to the party.

It's not like most of the Corps doesn't know about Michael's occasional bouts of indulgence — it's sort of an open secret among anyone who's ever pulled Strat Tower guard duty — but it's another thing to be exchanging awkward nods with the participants five minutes after they've been, well … indulging.

There are six of them in all.

Some are still scantily clad and glistening with sweat and what looks like oil; some are tugging their robes tighter against the breeze that cuts through the entrance hall. All of them stare at Alex with curious glances as they file past. He should probably worry about the gossip that might be provoked by him rolling up all sweaty and disheveled at Michael's door in the middle of the night and yelling his head off — because it's not like he wants to draw even more attention to his new and unusual relationship with Michael — but, hey, the escorts have probably all signed confidentiality agreements anyway.

And it's not like you want to admit to screwing an angel.

The last one, a girl with waist-length blonde hair who looks like she's just stepped out of one of the paintings in the Riesen building, nods at him with a small smile. Alex nods back, then waits a bit to see if there aren't any more oiled rabbits hidden in the magician's hat. When none are forthcoming and he can hear the echo of the last escort's footsteps on the stairwell, he limps through the doors and slides them closed behind himself with just a little more force than necessary.

Michael is standing in front of his ridiculous bed, as static as one of the combat training dummies down on the Corps training field. Actually, the sculpture of Michael that stands guard in the foyer of the Hall of Heroes probably looks more lifelike right now. He's wearing a pair of black pants — and nothing else. Alex has never seen Michael so much as unbuttoned before. It's distinctly unsettling. Michael looks as composed as ever, though: not a hair out of place, not so much as a greasy handprint on that marble torso of his. Still, the naked chest is enough to make Alex want to avert his eyes.

 _Is it blasphemy to see an archangel shirtless?_ he wonders, and then, _So where do the wings go_?

He rolls his aching shoulders, shrugging off his embarrassment in the process, and limps towards an arrangement of plush, high-backed chairs set around an ornate little table. The thing looks like it belongs in a museum. The whole room is ridiculously over-the-top: silk and velvet draperies, paintings swirling over Michael's bed, so many fat wax candles that a family of ten V1s could probably get by for a year with them down on the Island. Their flames shiver in the breeze from the open windows.

 _Angels are worse than magpies_ , Alex thinks. God, too, if all the gold-drenched chapels on the Boulevard below are anything to go by. Alex tries not to think about the fact that those chapels have all pretty much got _his_ name over the door, if Michael's right about this whole 'Savior' thing. It's still a crap-shoot, as far as Alex is concerned.

"You should keep those locked," Alex says, nodding towards the doors. "I just walked on up. No telling what one of those Acolyte nuts might do one day." He selects the most comfortable-looking chair and slumps into it with a sigh. "I hope your harem is being vetted."

"You're hurt," Michael says in that grave tone of his, like everything is a damn eulogy.

"Very observant." Alex screws up his nose and tongues at his bitten lip. His mouth still tastes like blood. "Got anything to drink around here?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing a decent tattoo removal session couldn't fix." Alex chances a look at all that shirtless angel as he says it. He can't quite help letting bitterness flavor the words.

Michael absorbs Alex's glare, dark eyes unreadable, then he moves to a cabinet by the wall to pour a glass of red wine from a carafe.

 _Turn around, turn around_ , Alex thinks. He — suddenly, desperately — wants a good look at Michael's bare back.

No dice. Before Alex gets a chance to see where the wings spring from, Michael sets the carafe down and shrugs on a robe picked from the same monochrome swatch book as every other item of clothing in his closet. Alex chews at his lip, wondering. _Is it just smooth, naked skin? Are there marks where they come out?_ He doesn't think he'll be asking any of the street kids how many points there are for getting to see exactly how the wings work. The escorts all have him beat on the points front, anyway. _How many points for actually screwing an archangel?_

Michael stalks over, carafe and glass in hand, robe swirling around his legs. "Here, drink this," he says, as he passes the glass to Alex. He settles himself gracefully into the opposite chair and sets the carafe on the table.

Alex takes two sips of the wine and then knocks the whole thing back. Michael probably thinks he's a philistine, but hell, it's a damn sight better than the sorry attempts at moonshine that usually passes for a good time in the Corps. Ethan can only steal so much good scotch from the Whele building without raising suspicions.

"Now, tell me what happened, Alex."

"These tattoos are trying to kill me is what happened."

"Tell me _exactly_ ," Michael says, like he's talking to a child. He looks grave, but when doesn't he? He probably has that same expression on his face while he's plowing into his oiled harem.

 _Okay, let's not go there_ , Alex thinks. He frowns and rolls the empty glass between his fingers. Then he shrugs and reaches over to pour himself another drink. He can't help letting out a hiss of indrawn breath as his muscles protest. Michael's eyes track the movement of Alex's hands to the table and back, but he says nothing.

After downing the second glass, the stinging tension in Alex's muscles begins to unwind and loosen. He sighs and leans his head back against the plush cushion.

He recounts the episodes in-between two more glasses of wine, holding the bowl of the wineglass between his palms as if he might warm himself on it.

Michael really doesn't need to hear about the way Alex dry-humped the washroom wall like a heat-drunk dog, so Alex skims over some of the more explicit details of the attacks. He doesn't mention the sexual component at all; it's just too much after the glimpse he got through Michael's door just now.

As Alex talks, Michael's expression slips from grave attention into a shape that almost resembles confusion. Concern Alex can handle, but confusion? He's seen Michael blank, he's seen him angry, he's even seen the damn angel cry. Seeing Michael confused sends runnels of fear trickling up his neck like water running the wrong way, and not even the buzz of four glasses of wine drunk too fast on an empty stomach can quench it.

Alex scrubs his hand through his hair. "So, am I going as nuts as my dad did? Because, I've gotta tell you, I'm feeling pretty nuts right now."

Michael shuts his eyes for a long moment — _Rare to even see him blink_ , Alex thinks, waiting — and then Michael opens them, tilting his head and piercing Alex with his dark stare. "When, exactly, did the incidents occur?" Michael says.

Alex frowns. "Monday?" He pauses. "Two or three times on Thursday night. And then twice again tonight. Just now on the damn stairwell, in fact."

"What time?"

"What do you mean 'what time'? Does it really matter?"

"What time was it, _exactly,_ when you were overcome on the stairs?" Michael almost sounds insistent.

Alex raises a brow. "About twenty-five minutes ago. Just before I knocked. Why?"

"And all the other times?"

"I don't know! Never in the day, thankfully. It's always at night. Somewhere between 1 and 4am, I think."

"Oh." Michael sits back in his chair, two small lines of concentration etched between his brows.

" _Oh_? Don't give me 'oh' _._ What the hell does it mean?"

Michael looks down at his hands where they lie in his lap, pale as paper. "Did you engage in any form of sexual intercourse at all over the past week?"

Alex's eyes widen. "No! No, of course not! _Jesus._ "

"Are you sure, Alex?" Michael's still staring down at his hands as if they're the most interesting thing in the room. "Think. This is important. Did you engage in sexual inter—"

"What the fuck, Michael?" Alex interrupts before Michael can finish that sentence again. Hearing it once was enough.

"I don't ask this casually," Michael says. He raises his head and meets Alex's glare.

Alex's sneer bares his teeth. "Well, Michael, us V2 grunts downstairs don't actually have the time or the money for casual orgies with half the escorts in Vega whenever we damn well feel like it. I work fourteen-hour shifts. I train every other day. I barely get time to _eat_ , let alone screw around."

That's not entirely true, of course. There are plenty of hook-ups happening all the time in the Corps, and Alex has partaken of his fair share of them, not to mention all the time he's spent with Claire (and he really doesn't want to think about Claire right now). But that's all beside the point. Michael's overridden every other aspect of Alex's life like a Mack truck crashing through undergrowth, and now he wants reports on Alex's sex life, too? _Fuck that._

Michael's gaze is unblinking. "I also had an episode, a certain involuntary sensation, that rendered me somewhat … weakened. It occurred at approximately 11:53pm on Wednesday evening." Knowing Michael, that time is exact, not approximate, but whatever. "The episode didn't incapacitate me to same extent as the ones you've been subject to, but I was similarly overcome."

"Is it some sort of attack then? Poison? Gabriel could—"

Michael shakes his head and leans forward, says intently, "What were you doing at 11:53pm on that particular day, Alex? Was there anything at all unusual about your routine? Think now."

"Nothing! I'd finished a patrol. I'd—"

Michael tilts his head in that bird-like way of his, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight.

_Oh, fuck._

A bucket of cold realization dumps over Alex's head and washes any remaining buzz of wine-induced relaxation from his body. He slumps in the chair, a flush of embarrassment creeping up under his collar and spreading over his cheeks.

He'd been on perimeter patrol on Wednesday evening. He'd eaten in the mess hall with the others and then had taken the opportunity to sneak into the shower to wash off the desert dust while nobody was around to see the tattoos. And, while he was in there, washroom to himself, he'd also taken the opportunity to work the tension out of his bones by jerking off into the shower spray.

The images click together in Alex's mind like the pieces of his M16: the painful wash of pleasure in the stairwell just now, the tangled mess of limbs on Michael's bed. Michael had probably been fucking one of the escorts while Alex clung to the stairwell with gritted teeth. Alex had jerked off on Wednesday and Michael had _felt it_?

He meets Michael's eyes, a confusing ball of arousal and rage coalescing in the pit of his stomach. _Rage, concentrate on the rage,_ he thinks _._ He says, "This goes _both ways?_ "

"Alex—"

"No, let me get this straight. All those times I was curled in my bunk, terrified that my skin was going to break my damn ribcage and suffocate me, you were _getting laid_? Am I reading this right?"

Michael inclines his head. "I think so."

"You think so? Christ! And just when I thought my life couldn't get any shittier, now I can't even jerk off without you breathing down my neck. Is this going to happen every time you or I … ?" Alex can't even finish the sentence. The carafe of wine is now empty, unfortunately.

"I don't know."

"Do you know _anything_ , Michael?"

"I carried the words on my skin, Alex. Just like you do now."

"So did _my dad_." And there's a stomach-churning thought. Alex's mouth ripples with disgust. "You're not telling me this happened with him?"

"I don't know why this connection has developed between us, but I can assure you that it never occurred with Jeep. I was the messenger; he was merely a temporary carrier of the markings. You, you're the destination, Alex."

Alex hopes that destination is somewhere nice and quiet, with one of those palm-fringed beach bars he's seen in old magazines, maybe a surf shack, and definitely a very distinct lack of angels. Anywhere but the desert, really. He's always wanted to see the sea.

He looks up at Michael, who's studying him intently, as if he might be able to read the markings through the fabric of Alex's clothes. Oh, and there's that look again; Michael could give William Whele lessons in expressions of abject reverence. Alex could do without having that expression directed at him while he's being forced to think about Michael's dick.

"So, they're essentially a disease, right?" Alex says, avoiding Michael's gaze. He tugs at his sleeve and glares at the harsh lines curving around his forearm. "What would happen if I died? Who would the message pass to then? Would it just return to sender, huh?" He can't quite prevent his eyes from flicking down to Michael's chest, and all that unmarked skin bracketed by the robe. Odd to think that these same markings were once on Michael's skin.

"You know I won't let anything happen to you."

"Yeah, yeah, you'd protect me from anything — except, apparently, the burning pain of my own skin trying to eat me while you fuck half of Vega."

If that hurts Michael, he doesn't show it. His face remains immobile. "There must be a reason for this," he says.

And then a thought drops into Alex's mind like a pebble. "Wait, Claire and I … we, y'know … right after I got these." Alex gestures at his torso. "Did you feel anything?" Alex's stomach contracts at the thought that Michael might have shared in that moment, too. Is there anything he can keep entirely for himself anymore? Do the markings make him the unreserved property of the entire damn world, just a glorified library book to be passed around and pawed at?

Michael's lips tighten. "No."

"So why is this happening now?"

"I don't know, Alex. The link may have been prompted by my actions, not yours. Something set in motion by my … indulgence."

Alex tugs his sleeve down, throws his head back against the chair again, stares at the ornate ceiling. They both sit in silence. The breeze from the open windows ruffles and plucks at Alex's hair, bringing with it the scent of the guttering wax candles.

Alex closes his eyes. It's the only way he can ask this. "Was it as painful for you as it was for me? On Wednesday, I mean?"

"No, it wasn't at all painful for me," Michael says, quietly.

Alex shifts in his chair, says, "Then why did it feel like I was dying just now on the stairs? When you were …" He trails off, squeezes his eyes shut tighter trying not to imagine all the things Michael might have been doing to spark that intensity. Alex's bitten lip is just a throbbing reminder of the tableaux he glimpsed earlier on the bed.

Michael's voice is soft. "I'm not sure, Alex. We experience pleasure far more intensely than humans in these bodies, far more intensely than even the spiritual contentment of our natural state. The pleasure inherent in this corporeal form is enthralling, I admit. This is why those bodies inhabited by the lower ranks of angel are, well …"

Alex opens one eyes. "Sex-crazy, bling-obsessed gluttons?"  

"Hedonistic, yes." Michael breathes out a sound that's almost a laugh.

An uncomfortable zing ricochets around Alex's chest at the sound. He raises an eyebrow and nods towards the rumpled bed. "And not just eight-balls, huh?"

"Not just the lower angels, no. It might be that, even through this connection, whatever it is, my … pleasure is simply too much for you to endure."

"Well, I hope you enjoy celibacy then."

Michael does laugh then, a short exhale of amusement, and they both look at each other, lips curving at the same time.

In all the years he's known Michael — or, at least, been in his general vicinity, as street kid, as recruit, as Corps candidate — Alex is pretty sure this is the first time he's ever seen him smile properly; he'd definitely remember if any of his mental baseball cards had _that_ expression on them. It makes Michael look almost human, makes something unwanted twist somewhere under Alex's ribs to know he put that expression there on that smooth-as-marble face, as ridiculous and fucked as this whole situation is.

 _Do you smile like that with your escorts?_ Alex wonders.

Then Michael's brow tightens like he's just received some divine message — or heard Alex's stray thought — and his smile falters, flattens out into thoughtfulness. "Alex, do you trust me?" he says. "I want to try something. An experiment, if you will."

Alex tilts his head, questioning.

Without waiting for an answer, Michael shifts his chair until it's so close Alex can feel the warmth of Michael's knees. In the candlelight, Michael's eyes look almost black as he leans in, far too close, and lays his palm on the back of Alex's hand where it rests on the arm of the chair. Michael's hand is surprisingly warm.

After their frank conversation, and with this flock of unwanted thoughts shedding their feathers in Alex's head — the oiled tangle of limbs on the bed; the memory of his hand on himself in the shower, slick and wet; the male escort's lips, bitten and red — the whole situation feels far too intimate, more so than all the other times Michael has pushed and pulled him, examined him, manhandled him.

And, come to think of it, there has been quite a lot of touching, hasn't there?

Michael's hand slides up and tightens on Alex's wrist like a manacle. Alex's heart lurches. "Uh," he says, looking down at Michael's grip on his wrist. "What are you—"

"Try to relax," Michael says. "Trust me. Say 'stop' if you feel any pain at all."

Michael has that determined 'you will eat your vegetables' look on his face right now, and Alex knows from experience that whatever Michael's about to do, trying to dissuade him from it would be like trying to convince the desert sun to take a time-out during midday training maneuvers.

Alex can only watch, tongue thick in his mouth, skin tingling under Michael's grip, as Michael's free hand slides down from where it rests on his robe and — wait, wait, is Alex really seeing this? — into Michael's own lap.

At the first movement of Michael's hand, Alex jerks like a paper target at shooting practice.

He looks down at his lap in disbelief. It feels like a phantom hand just brushed along his cock, an echo of Michael's movement in his own lap, like stroking himself while looking in a mirror. It reminds him uncomfortably of that night in the washroom.

"Oh, fuck. _Fuck,_ " Alex says, squirming in the chair. "Michael, wait—"

He doesn't say 'stop', though.

Michael's fingers tighten on Alex's wrist, and Michael's eyes slip closed as his hand begins to move slowly in his lap, fingers curling around the thin black fabric that outlines his now entirely obvious erection. Alex feels invisible fingers curling around his cock through the fabric of his pants, too; his thighs clench on the chair at the sensation.

And, okay, Alex had already been slightly hard during this whole awkward conversation — because, even if you're pissed at him, who _wouldn't_ be turned on thinking about Michael gravely fucking a whole harem of oiled escorts like it was his job — but now Alex is as hard as the wooden chair arm under his hand, and the word 'stop' has been entirely excised from his vocabulary, clean as a scalpel cut.

He presses his free hand into his groin, grinds the heel of his palm into his cock: to stop the sensation, to help it along — he's not sure. Oh, and maybe that wasn't the best plan of action, because Michael makes a pained noise and his hand stills in his lap. His eyes snap open and lock with Alex's. They're dark.

 _Then again, maybe it was exactly the right thing to do_ , Alex thinks, as he presses harder at his own cock, makes a tentative stroke, and Michael's eyes become darker, hungrier. _Is he feeling this, too?_

Then Michael's hand begins to move again, his pale fingers stroking through the fabric of his pants in a smooth, rhythmic slide. Alex can't help echoing him, until they're both moving in time, eyes locked with each other's, Alex's heart hammering against his ribs like it wants to break right through the bone and go bouncing all the way back down those stairs.

" _Fuck_ ," Alex says again, because this stereo sensation is completely nuts. Talk about double for your money. He wants to tear his pants open, get a hand on himself, for Michael to do the same, just to see if actual skin-on-skin contact can be any better than this.

Is it possible for _anything at all_ to feel better than this?

And, as if the markings are mocking Alex, something does shift as he and Michael click into smooth synchronization. The sensation begins to slip-slide into something more than an echo, like something simmering under Alex's skin, bubbling up under the surface and pushing at its bounds. Something more than coarse, human pleasure, more than the pleasure of skin and sweat and urgency, starts to thrum from Michael's white-fingered grip on Alex's wrist. It floods along Alex's arm, following the lines of the markings, down his torso and straight to his cock.

Michael makes a low noise. His eyes flutter shut.

"Michael," Alex breathes, his voice somewhere between desperation and fear. The breath becomes a groan as the tattoos begin to unfurl and coil around his skin, throbbing under Michael's grip like a pulse. Alex can't help watching as they twine around his forearm and under Michael's fingers like a contented cat, pleased at the contact.

Unlike all the other times, there's no pain here, just pleasure, but it's a pleasure so rich, so intense, it renders all other pleasures just a pale dilution of this moment. It's almost worse than the pain. Pain can be withstood through gritted teeth and bitten lip, but this? This is impossible to fight, this feeling like his soul is somewhere outside his skin, watching as his body is puppeted into jerky, desperate movements.

It feels like he imagines an eight-ball possession does.

At that thought, Alex's hand stills on his cock. He tries to pull away, but Michael's hand is like steel against his wrist, clamping Alex's hand to the arm of the chair.

" _Wait_ ," Alex says, through his teeth. "This is— I don't—"

He doesn't what? He _does_ , of course. He really does. He wants nothing more than to submerge himself in this, like ducking his head under that sticky amber sea and letting go, letting himself sink slowly into its depths, weightless.

But something in him still bucks at the bit, at the hand clamped around his wrist like a shackle of ownership. And, Alex knows now, there are so many types of possession. If this is going to happen he wants to control it, to own it, to bite at Michael's lips until he can get under that marble skin and see what's underneath.

See if there's anything underneath at all.

So, Alex pushes forward, reaches up and clamps his hand firmly at the back of Michael's head, buries his fingers in the short, soft hair there. But before he can move to bring his mouth to Michael's, Michael's eyes flick open, and Alex pauses at what he sees in them.

Michael's eyes are bright and glittering — with hunger, with desire, sure, but also with _discovery_ , like he's just seen something particularly fascinating through the lens of a microscope.

Michael tilts his head to peer into Alex's eyes. "Alex," he says. "Do you see?"

Alex stiffens, lets his hand drop away from Michael's hair.

Michael is almost smiling again — another two for the price of one, but this one makes Alex's guts twist in entirely the wrong direction.

"I think," Michael says, voice husky, "that together you and I seem to work as some form of conductor, like two ends of a wire meeting and creating an induction loop. I'm the beginning and you're the end. I think if we could just try to—"

Alex tugs his hand out from under Michael's fingers, pushes the chair back with a squeal of wood, jumps to his feet. "Jesus Christ," he says.

Yeah, maybe the blasphemy is deliberate this time.

Michael looks up at him, those two small lines notched between his brows again. He looks distinctly unruffled, his face pale and still, his hair perfectly presentable, despite Alex's desperate clutching.

He still looks just like that stupid statue glowering over the entrance to Vega's Hall of Heroes with wings of white marble, cold and remote.

And Alex doesn't need a mirror to know that he looks a mess. He can feel the flush on his cheeks, can feel the sweat cooling on his skin. He tugs at his rumpled shirt. "I'm not your fucking science experiment," he hisses.

"Alex?" Michael looks genuinely confused.

 _And that's even worse_ , Alex thinks. That complete incomprehension. Michael really has no idea at all how people work, for all these years he's spent meddling in their affairs and burying himself in their flesh. He's been perched at the top of his gilded tower for over two decades, while politicians like Whele and Riesen run Vega's underclasses into the ground, grit for their mill. He understands nothing.

He's not even human.

"I've got to go," Alex says.

"Wait."

"No. Just … no. I'm on duty in three hours. I have to go." Alex turns, sights fixed on the door.

He's half-way across the room when Michael's hand grips his arm. He hadn't even heard Michael get up from his chair.

"I don't understand," Michael says from behind him.

Alex whirls to face him. "Of course you don't understand! How could you?"

"Alex, I—"

"I'm not here for you to dissect, Michael. You don't get to pull me apart just to see how I tick, no matter what these fucking tattoos say. Don't you get it? You take us apart, we don't slot neatly back together again. Didn't _your father_ ever teach you that?"

Michael's fingers tighten on Alex's arm, almost painful now. "That's not my intention. That was never my intention."

"Yeah, intentions. There's an old human—" Alex spits that word out like it's something bitter "—saying about good intentions. Why don't you go look it up? Now let me go." He twists under Michael's hand, jerks his arm away. "I can't do this right now."

And something in Alex's tone must be hitting home, because Michael's face smooths out, hardens. "You must be tired. I'll fly you down."

"I'll walk."

"We're going to have to discuss this, Alex," Michael says, shifting into the clipped cadence of a superior officer, like he's flipped some sort of angelic emotion switch. It just makes Alex bristle even more.

"Just try your hardest not to fuck anyone, Michael, and we'll both be fine. End of story."

Alex rubs at his forearm as he strides across the room, all ache in his muscles evaporated along with whatever was left of the buzz from the wine.

Michael is silent behind him, and Alex doesn't turn around. It takes him just ten minutes to descend the tower.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for dub-con tattoo bonding of a sexual nature. Michael also knowingly initiates contact of a sexual nature without Alex's consent and despite Alex's obvious reluctance.


End file.
